It was 4am and my internal alarm clock decided that sleep was over. A waning gibbous moon shone bright, clear white above the row of homes that stretch out in my neighbourhood. There is something magic in the dark morning before the day wakes up.
I say this, despite being woken with an anxious mind and the discomfort of acid reflux from a second helping of coleslaw the night before that ended my slumber two hours before my alarm. I figured I could lie there and ruminate about the state of the world, and my second-helping, or I could get up and begin the day slowly. I chose the latter.
I poured myself a mug of warm water, let the dog out and back in, dispersed her treats and contemplated why nobody gives me a reward for going to the bathroom, considering I’d done so three times since I went to bed last night.
Then I headed to my office, opened my laptop and started to read highlights of the televised French debates in the federal election. I read several sources to get a sense of the recap, but avoided video clips. It was too early to watch the exchanges. Better to let the mind absorb the words before I have to interpret the body language and posturing of those who are doing battle in suits. I had enough heartburn.
My early wakefulness meant I’d struggle to stay awake for that evening’s English debates. I wouldn’t miss it though. I enjoy the adrenaline of debates. Yet, I was awake at this ridiculous hour because of the uncertainty this election was stirring within myself, my sense of identity, poking at the fears and hopes I have for a future that has never been certain, but now feels even less so, in ways that are heavy to contemplate, unless it’s 4am.
It was also the dawn of my youngest child’s 23rd birthday. My son, now a man, is a college-educated, tax-paying, gainfully employed member of society, and hopeful future homeowner, facing a reality that won’t follow the same path that his parents followed, and will unlikely ever have the wealth of his grandparents’ generation. I wonder if apathy will influence his vote or if hope will.
He was raised by parents who worked too much too often, so struggle isn’t new to him. A blue-collar father and media mom; two sides of the economic scale. He’s seen us win. He’s seen us lose. But he’s never seen us quit. Also, he knows a happy marriage doesn’t mean you have to vote for the same political party, though as we’ve aged and priorities changed, the Carpenter and I have found ourselves more in tune politically. The struggle is still real.
By the time you read this, my family will have cast our votes in the advanced polls. We may go together, or we may go individually, but we will not miss our opportunity to vote. It matters. It matters every time we get to exercise the privilege to vote. We understand that it is that; a privilege as much as it is a right. We remember the generations before us that made this possible.
I’m tired but I’m wide awake for the same reason: I care about this country. If you do too, cast your vote. Whatever the outcome, let’s learn to paddle in the same direction.
The world is watching.
